Windbottom lines up his club and takes a hefty swing at the ball on the tee. He misses it completely, but gazing into the distance with his hand shading his eyes, shouts “Fore!”

Overhead, dark storm-clouds gather and it begins to rain.

***

Scene two: The White Castle. Windbottom’s senior advisors meet in secret to contemplate their best course of action.

“The people are becoming restless,” says chief of staff Rince Prepuce. “And our support is crumbling. His response? Another fucking golf holiday. But if I object he’ll simply have me replaced.”

The assembled group nod and murmur, knowing the petty tyrant will brook no criticism.

“Could we have him committed?”

“Poisoned chalice?”

“Flayed alive, disembowelled and eaten by dogs?”

“All three?”

“If only,” says Prepuce, standing by the tall window, gazing out into the evening gloom. “With King Loony-Tunes from the north threatening attack, we need a strong and wise leader. Hell, my idiot second cousin who was kicked in the head by a mule could do a better job. Windbottom has to go.”

“Aye” agree the group.

“But of course he will use the threat of war to boost his flagging public image and fill his coffers with more gold . We need diplomacy, not his infantile macho bullshit. We must act now.”

At that moment the chamber door bursts open and the King’s guard enters.

“What is the meaning of this?” Demands Prepuce.

Without a word, the leader of the guard hands him a scroll of paper. On it, in a barely legible childish scrawl are the words

‘Your all fired. Signed, King Windbottom’

“It’s ‘You’re fired’ you halfwit,” mutters Prepuce, shaking his head as they are lead out. “And we are all fucked now.”

***

Scene three: the palace of King Wrong-un. The glittering, opulent interior is decked out with flags, portraits and numerous flattering sculptures of the king. There is also also a soft-play area with a little slide and lots of toys and Lego bricks.

A top general knocks and shuffles in nervously, his several dozen gold medals clanking. “Glorious leader, our fire-dragons are almost ready.”

King Wrong-un stares at his reflection in a huge ornate mirror on the wall, checking his hair. He glances lovingly at the vast self-portrait behind his desk, then looks at the general, who is straining to stand upright under the weight of the medals.

“About fucking time” says King Wrong-un, testily. “How is my popularity rating with the people today?”

“Er it’s 100% approval your gloriousness, as always.”

Wrong-un frowns. “Can’t you find a way to boost it a bit?”

“Er, I will look into it, your fabulousness.”

“What news of that imbecile so-called-King, Windbottom?”

“Our spies say he is playing golf again, your most graciousness.”

“That man is bereft of reason. Now bring me my lunch and send for the royal artist. I want a new sculpture made of me, crushing all my enemies. And I want it to be made out of solid gold with diamonds, and visible from space.”

The general closes the door and walks away, weeping softly. “We’re all fucked now” he mutters to himself. And taking off his heavy jacket and folding it neatly, he mops the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he jumps out of the window.

I enjoyed it thoroughly but I did find it a little far-fetched. The fire-dragons I’m ok with but even for a work of fiction King Windbottom was a bit too much. No-one like that could exist in real life…